


Just Pretend

by Nova_Holden



Series: Little Star [1]
Category: Suits (TV)
Genre: Adult baby, Age Play, Cuddling, Diapers, Fluff, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Infantilism, Little!Mike, Non-Sexual Age Play, Pacifiers, consensual ageplay, daddy!Harvey - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-01-25
Updated: 2015-01-25
Packaged: 2018-03-08 23:20:01
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,240
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3227276
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Nova_Holden/pseuds/Nova_Holden
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>Disclaimer: this does not belong to me.</p>
    </blockquote>





	Just Pretend

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: this does not belong to me.

 

　

_Star light, star bright_

_The first star I see tonight_

_I wish I may, I wish I might_

_Have the wish I wish tonight_

　

“Morning, little star,” I say, smiling warmly. My voice is sweet, cloyingly so. Hardly my own. “How’s Daddy’s special little guy today?”

Mike immediately beams, thrusting his arms upwards and bucking in excitement.

“Da-da!” he cries gleefully, grinning widely around his paci as he strains to touch my face, craning and squirming and kicking away his restrictive blankie in a desperate bid to make contact. His fingers finally brush against my chin and accidentally poke my lip, but that only causes my grin to widen.

It’s a nice feeling- this _‘You Are My Entire Universe’_ worship stuff. Looks like that are addictive.

The blue of his eyes is bottomless, strikingly vivid, but they’ve lost that piercing quality that tells me that adult Mike’s still hanging around in there somewhere.

He’ll be back soon enough, but for now, I’ll cherish every moment I can get with my little boy.

“Better get you out of those icky clothes, huh, sweetheart?” I pose to myself, humming under my breath as I set about the task.

Toes wriggle, legs swinging happily, as I lean down and plant a kiss to his forehead, nuzzling my nose against his. Pulling away, I unbutton his soft, footed sleeper and carefully free his lively, quivering limbs, flailing in all directions. In order to minimize the damage inflicted upon my poor torso, I supply Little Mike with his favourite plush doggie to wield instead, which he happily waves around, jiggling excitedly and hitting me across the face despite my best efforts.

I roll my eyes and get on with it.

It’s a bit of a struggle to get the pair of baby blue socks I’ve acquired slipped over his feet to protect them from the slight chill and remove his previous diaper, but I persevere. Then I wipe his privates clean and pin my little boy in an extra thick diaper after sliding the crinkling, plastic garment adorned with sweet animal prints over his bony knees and thighs. I secure the tabs tightly and give his crotch a gentle pat. Then it’s only a matter of snatching another fuzzy sleeper from the pile and zipping him up.

I can’t resist it; he’s too damn adorable. I ruffle my son’s fluffy bedhair and pinch his sleep-speckled, rosy cheeks.

“Good boy. Such a clever boy,” I praise in what Mike once referred to as my most patronizing ‘clapping’ tone. Only difference is, in any other instance my voice is thick with sarcasm and this time, it isn’t. Far from it.

He smiles back at me, sucking earnestly on his yellow paci and lazily rolling the childish object in his mouth.

And if the squeak of the rubber and soft slurps make my insides glow, I’d never admit it.

Afterwards, I take his spare hand, the other refusing to relinquish his grip on his doggie, and he toddles along beside me trailing his worn blankie towards the living area where I plop my little one down within the confines of his playpen and leave him to his many toys, going to prepare his morning bottle.

Not really to my surprise, Mike scowls and grunts, propelling himself forward after my heels with one outreaching, grasping hand. One more frustrated whine and he tumbles over, crashing to the floor with a sickening thump.

“Mike!”

I dash to his side, quickly kneeling down and propping him up, hugging him tight. Breath hitching, he rubs his forehead and sniffles while I sympathetically coo, “Aw, poor baby. Did someone get a nasty owie?”

“Da-da!” Mike’s face crumples and he starts bawling in earnest as he clings to my shirt. “No, Da-da!

“Tay! Dun go!”

My heart squeezes.

If there is one downside to this arrangement, it is definitely that while in his younger mindset, Mike has a tendency to become panicked if he’s on his own for any length of time and I kick myself for not explaining myself before I left.

“Shh, it’s okay, baby,” I soothe, rocking him from side to side and kissing the top of his head. “Daddy’s very sorry, but he has to go make his hungry little monster a warm ba-ba. Don’t you want your ba-ba, baby?” I can’t remember how or when I developed the habit of referring to myself in third person. It simply seemed appropriate.

Mike forcefully shakes his head. “No go,” he whimpers. God, this kid.

He’s going to be my undoing. Seriously.

“I’ll be right back, I promise. Look,” I point, “Daddy’ll be right over there the whole time, okay, darling? I‘m not going anywhere.”

“No! Tay!” he pleas, rubbing the soft fabric of his blankie anxiously. “ _Peas_.”

There’s no way I can say no to him when he’s like this--huge, unblinking eyes swimming with fear trained on me. It’s like a punch to the gut.

“Okay, okay,” I give in with a sigh, “I’ll stay. But just for now, okay? We can snuggle up under your blankie and see what Iggle Piggle is up to, hmm? How‘s that sound?” I grope for the remote controller to turn on the kiddie show which never fails to enthral the youngster. Once his attention is diverted, I figure I might have a shot at sneaking away, but for now, the chances are less than slim. They’re non-existent.

While he was crying, Mike’s paci had fallen out and I automatically pick the beloved item up and pop it back in his waiting, open mouth.

Settling the boy against my shoulder and enveloping him in his fleece blankie, I lovingly stroke his hair while he sucks obediently, drool oozing down his chin and onto the chest of his pyjamas as he cuddles his stuffed dog.

“Daddy loves you so much, baby. His little star, isn’t that right? You mean the world to me,” I tell him and for a minute, I can’t begin to understand why I sound so chocked up.

The dampness on my cheeks doesn’t even register.

Not even when I cuddle him closer and bury my face in his hair, blocking out everything bar our matched breaths and the steady suckling.

Mike, I suspect, indulges in this because he needs to know that it’s okay to let someone care for him--that he has someone who _does_ care about him, no matter what.

Me, on the other hand…

I could, admittedly, sometimes do with a reminder that-that it’s _okay_ to care. That I _can_ care. That I’m only human.

It just…works. A harmless stress-reliever--that’s it.

At first, yeah, it was awkward and we fumbled a little trying to our find our footing, but now the transition is seamless and we relish our individual roles. Sometimes a little too much, perhaps. But it’s our little weekend secret. Not even Donna knows.

During the week? None of this exists.

In fact, that Monday I‘m in the foulest of foul moods, snapping at everything and everyone, and I bark “Mike!” and watch as he warily turns. “For your sake, you better have those goddamn briefs ready for this meeting or I‘m firing your sorry ass, no questions asked.”

Like a deer in headlights, he gulps and scurries off and I grit my teeth and carry on.

Like it never even happened. Like I’m nothing but a corporate bastard.

Like it was just pretend.

　


End file.
